Beyond The Sun
by Chuckney
Summary: on hiatus Rose's life is nothing more than a bitter, empty disappointment. But a strange discovery in Sherwood Forest turns her entire world inside out. Can a group of outlaws from the 12th century teach a girl from the 20th how to live again? WillxOC
1. That Which We Call A Rose

Disclaimer: I own no plotlines or characters of BBC's Robin Hood. I do, however, own my own characters and my topographically-altered universe, and I don't think either of us can really claim to own Nottingham, or the legend of Hood itself.

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OK. Here goes. It's my first fic and I'm very nervous.

But before I move aside and allow the curtain to rise, I need to say one or two things.

Firstly, this is AU. I didn't have a map with me at two-thirty AM a fortnight ago when this idea first gripped me, but I do know my geography is a bit off: Sherwood Forest is quite some way from Nottingham.

But in MY, or rather, my story's universe, Sherwood Forest was always much bigger than the one in our world, and an act passed in 1902 in the interest of woodland preservation prohibited the destruction of the Forest for city building. Grumblingly, the city used all the space it was allowed, which is why this Nottingham City ends fairly abruptly at the Forest boundary defined at the beginning of the 20th century.

Secondly, I'm sorry if I accidentally slip up with grammar, spelling etc, or anachronisms. Please, point them out to me: I'd like to correct them.

Thirdly: this isn't going to be a Jack-Rabbit flash of a fic. I couldn't make it quick or concise if I tried because I'm not that kind of writer; I like to take my time to say things. You might wonder where these opening chapters are slowly going, but please, bear with me. Hopefully you'll find it worth it.

Also I'd like to say thanks to Zaedah. I think I've had a review before my first chapter is even up! I pray I don't disappoint.

Oh, gosh. I'm so nervous. Here goes!

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Her footsteps were brisk and purposeful, sensible heels clopping along the grimy pavement and making her sound like a particularly prim pony trotting the streets of Nottingham. With a faint grimace, the girl tilted her head from left to right, trying to ease some of the ache that had accumulated in her neck after a day sat at her drab desk.

Someone with a tightly drawn face and an aggressive, imposing briefcase hurried past her, case swinging like a leathery modern-day answer to a battle-axe. It caught her painfully on the knee and she stopped short, clamping a pale hand over the joint and cursing under her breath. She turned back, but her unconcerned assailant had strode on without apology and been lost to the sea of identical, grim-faced men and women, thronging the streets. The oncoming currents of them, streaming in their hundreds now Rush Hour had officially begun, parted around her automatically; she earned not one glance of sympathy yet did not let it trouble her at all – she herself knew the emotion-numbing effects of a monotonous day of listless paper-pushing.

Straightening up, she pressed on. However much she tried to convince herself otherwise, there was no longer any escape from the fact that she was one of these people; Nottingham City Council had her tied to a desk and computer, her foreseeable future split into endless slots of nine-to-five. She had given up on being different, dressing rebelliously over a year ago; she had dropped the banner of her one-woman-protest and ducked her head to join the rest of them. Time had, in all its horrible irony, brought her to be the one thing her childhood self had sworn she would never be: just like everyone else, an anonymous clone of a young secretary, as unchanging and dull a part of the landscape as the grey concrete tower blocks.

Journeying home, she took a leaf-strewn woodland path that meandered through Sherwood Forest, providing a scenic but altogether lengthier passage home that she vastly preferred to the bus and train routes. And in any case, she had nothing to hurry home to.

She breathed in deeply, inhaling the earthy smell and revelling in the serene quiet of the woodland after the horrid bustle of the city. Closing her eyes, a smile spread across her face but it was tinged with melancholy: her time spent in the forest was a good deal more than most people's, but she never felt it enough. Indeed, the fact she was there that evening meant she was soon to be home, a prospect that dramatically failed to please her.

Opening her eyes again, she continued picking her way along the uneven path automatically while her thoughts collapsed into the usual plummeting spiral. 'What kind of 19-year-old prefers to spend time in the woods than to shopping?' she wondered angrily, stepping neatly over a fallen branch. 'What kind of teenager was she, to prefer the company of these trees to that of the people she saw everyday?' And it seemed to her as if the warm wind was whispering, repeating the taunts of her childhood bullies which had never fazed her then but, somehow, stupidly, bothered her now. "_Freak_," hissed the wind, rasping over the rough boughs and stirring the summer leaves. "_Freak…_"

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Some time later, whilst following the path through a part of the forest she wasn't so familiar with, something flashed brightly in the corner of her vision, making her stop and turn, looking for the source. For several seconds nothing else happened, but just as she began to walk on a leaf shifted, allowing a beam of sunlight through the canopy to strike the mystery object and set it alight with incandescent brilliance.

Curiosity kindled, the girl stepped from the path and headed off towards the glaring spot quite some way off in the forest. As she walked through the carpet of foliage – there was a permanent leaf litter in the forest, even in high summer – she made a mental note of the route she took and the things she passed so as to be able to find her way back easily – a skill she had honed to second-nature perfection years back. She was a fair way into the woods and the path was barely visible behind her by the time she was close to the shiny articles, and upon reaching them she snorted in disgust. It was litter, nothing but a silvery crisp packet and a scattering of glass fragments from a vodka bottle of some sort.

"Urgh!" The noise of distaste rattled wetly in her throat as she picked up the abandoned plastic bag that the offending items had probably been carried in and delicately loaded the rubbish into it to take home and throw away. There was anger in her eyes: she loathed disrespectful attitudes to nature. Although she had lived in the city all of her life, she had also spent much time in Sherwood Forest since a young age. It had been her peaceful refuge, a place to run to when she wanted to escape everything, or everyone.

Commencing her journey back to the path, it was as she passed one of the enormous trees that the sound burst suddenly on her ears. Loud, but seeming somehow far away, it sounded like a gale in a forest; the rushing roars of roiling wind mixed with the hissing crashes of angered trees. And stirred in, voice: snatches of conversation tossed like rags in the tempest. The girl stopped as abruptly as if she'd been slapped, but already the strange noise had faded to a barely audible rumble.

"Hello?" It came out more timid-sounding and quieter than she intended but it was loud enough to blow away the last cobweb vestiges of the odd murmuring; save the birdsong, the forest was once again entirely quiet. She looked around uneasily. The trees were all still – the little breeze had moved off elsewhere sometime ago. Her eyes sharpened for any sign of company, she slowly made a full turn on the spot. There was no-one else in the forest around her. Feeling distinctly unsettled, she set off for the path again and carried on her way home, narrow eyes sweeping the forest with a ray of disquieted wariness.

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_Pchick._ A second of dark delay, than a burst of even artificial light illuminated the studio. Stooping to pick up the post which had arrived after she had left that morning, she swept over to the plain table in the centre of the flat and laid the letters and her bag onto its shiny surface, dropping her keys into the glass ashtray-turned-dish with a 'chink'. The two letters stared up at her, demanding attention: a pale yellow one addressed to "Rose Brenton" and a stark white envelope from the bank with "Miss R. O. Brenton" printed on the front. Recognising the rounded script on the primrose envelope, Rose snorted. One of her old foster-mother's regular and unwanted communications. Her foster mother didn't enjoy writing them but for some reason felt obliged, and Rose detested reading them but hadn't yet had the courage to just throw the dull, halting, impersonal things away unopened. Much like those bank statements, she mused, leaving both envelopes intact on the tabletop and striding over to the kitchen, uncorking a bottle of cheap wine and her thoughts already chewing over how best to go about finishing her work that evening.

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The second hand jumped into place, triumphant. But the clock was an inexpensive, plastic thing, reminiscent of those joyless timekeepers that watched over school halls and classrooms, and nine o'clock passed without chime or ceremony. Rose lay on the hard, navy sofa, her wineglass in hand, regarding the noisy television with disinterest. A small African child flickered onscreen. With Rose's help, pleaded the box, that child could enjoy food, water and education – all the things he had a right but no access to. Rose sighed, and her mind drifted.

Faintly often, she would send a sum of her spare money to a charitable organisation; more out of guilt than goodwill, but she figured that if the funding got there, the reasons for its donation held little significance. And it was all very well giving to these charities, she mused, watching the light sparkle in her weak-coloured wine, but you never felt it did any real good. It was nothing but a figure, perhaps for social climbers to drop into conversation. It didn't, in her mind, translate into basic necessities for underprivileged children: it remained the chunk missing from your pay-packet, sent off the great, mysterious entity of the Good Cause.

The television growled irritatingly at her, an advert done by a man with a voice that Rose was sure it wasn't possible to have naturally. The boys were probably chosen at birth decided the by-then tipsy girl, taught to speak in emphatic, dramatic and yet utterly serious gravelly tones from a young age. Against her better judgement, she found herself watching the commercial; it turned out the mystery man had been gushing, in his deathly-grave way, about a razor. Rose thought she might scream at the ridiculousness of it all.

Next, it was DVDs. So the Disney Classics had been digitally remastered, had they? Enthralling. Rose managed to yawn with derisive bitterness, which was no mean feat, and threw the rest of her wine into her mouth, swallowing it in one gulp. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that one of the titles dancing emphatically on the screen was Robin Hood. That's the kind of charity that would really inspire her, she thought, stand up a little unsteadily and walking over to the television. Grassroots stuff – really doing good things, and seeing their effects. Dropping everything, putting your life on hold to help sort out other people'. Her unsteady finger connected with the button second attempt. The enthusiastic teenager advertising foundation was abruptly removed from sight and sound with a clunk, as if Rose had taken a cricket bat to her flawless face. For a few seconds more, she stared into the black depths of the box.

She'd thought about it seriously, once or twice before: abandoning her job and home to go and do good in the world. What benefit was she giving to the impoverished, the oppressed, the needy of the world, holed up in an ugly office day after day, pointlessly bashing at a keyboard? She could just stop, sell the studio, sell everything; clear out her bank account and join some organisation, far away.

It really was that simple, wasn't it?

But then there would always pipe up the shrill voice of rationality – of course she couldn't do that. She had responsibilities; to others, to herself. The rules were unwritten but stood strong as iron: it was in no way a simple or indeed acceptable practice. And so on.

Rose sighed. How she longed she could listen to the quiet, hopeful voice in the corner that whispered, gently, "Yes."

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Well, there it is. Why am I so scared?!

Reviews are much appreciated, including constructive criticism, and especially overly-florid, long-winded ones like I keep besieging some of you others with. ;D

Much, Much Love,

A Very Nervous Pig.


	2. Life as Tedious as a TwiceTold Tale

**Disclaimer: Due to a technical error, I once believed I owned the BBC Robin Hood series. Please hold while a course of drugs and rehab corrects this – in the meantime, there is some fanfic for you to read.**

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**Nervousness has abated slightly – thanks to those wonderful reviews. LoStorico, Dean Parker, Leah Day, Hallows07, Mage Ren and Zaedah, thank you so much for your time and encouragement.**

**Here is Chapter Two!**

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Rose fixed her eyes on the dim of the forest with the desperate intent of a racer nearing the finishing line. Each step seemed to carry her nowhere, yet eventually the comforting shade of the trees closed like a breaking wave over her head. She didn't stop, she didn't slow or falter but drove on, leaving the path almost immediately and navigating her way through the forest: it was a part she knew as intimately as a friend. Indeed, she had the former to fill the space that the lack of the latter left, although it wasn't really the right shape. Rounding a large green bush, she spotted it, and her pace quickened. The tree she had been searching for looked entirely nondescript from one side but on the other a bulbous swelling at the base of the trunk made for a perfect natural seat. Slinging her bag down carelessly beside the sycamore, Rose sat heavily on the makeshift chair and leaned back on the trunk, eyes closed, to let out a frustrated sigh that was tearstained at the edges. Work was horrible. Her colleagues were horrible. Fridays were horrible. 

Had it really been just over a year since what had happened? No -she had journeyed to and from that office for a thousand years, at least. It felt like an age since she had first donned that strange black suit and stepped from the flat again. Time had passed normally – no, often too quickly – before then, but that was a millennia ago. Since then, there were only pinpricks of specific memory puncturing the grey blur of the months that had lasted forever and gone nowhere. Rose lived in the moment, but not in the colourful, heedless way that most people meant. The moment was all she knew: as soon as it was the past she couldn't be bothered to remember it and there was nothing called the future that she could look forward to. Only a dull moment… then another… and another.

And that was just one year, she thought in numb terror: how many dozens more had she to pass before something really happened again. It was all so endless, so dragging, so pointless –. She stopped. No. Not pointless. She didn't mean that. She wasn't going back there.

The physical tapped her on the shoulder again and Rose was aware of the forest once more. She breathed in deeply, then let the air pour slowly away. _That_ Friday had been particularly horrendous; the other workers in the office had somehow managed to eke enjoyment out of another day of stealthily laughing at her. She didn't know how they managed it – she thought they would have tired of it many months ago but apparently she was still a fountain of mirth. She wondered if they knew she was aware of every barbed joke, or if they really were so stupid as to believe she was blind and deaf to their sneers as she feigned. That day they had found even more reason for vindictive merriment: a group meal that night, and although the news had reached her an invitation seemed to have been lost in the wash. Not that she minded, not really, Rose thought; she avoided spending excess time with her taunters at all and any costs. But she had no-one else to go out with instead.

Opening her eyes, which might have been a little pinker than normal, she gazed up at the peacefully shifting canopy of bright June leaves. I need to get out of this job, she silently declared, the reflections of the foliage swimming on the surface of her eyes. It's stifling me… slowly killing me. And those idiots are enough to put you off people for life, if they haven't already. But there was nowhere else she could go; pretending she had experience, qualifications and putting on her warmest, most convincing smile had only just scraped her into the office. She left and it was back to the bars and clubs, back to washing dishes and fending off lecherous drunks, back to the life she'd sworn she'd leave for good. NO, she would stay, and by twenty-five be an imagination-starved social leper. The thought gave her a wry smile.

With nowhere she really needed or wanted to be, Rose sat for a few silent minutes on the crude chair, drawing on the unhurried peace of the woodland for strength. She was staring at the gently swaying trees, wondering absently whether they were bored, content or had any self-awareness at all when an idea barged in that shook her from her torpor – why didn't she go back to that spot she had come across yesterday? There might be the possibility of throwing some light on the matter of the unexplained noises.

Mind set, she resurrected her bag from the bed of leaves it had slumped down in and made her way back to the woodland trail. Several minutes passed as she travelled determinedly onward, scanning the trees left and right with her sharp eyes for signs she was nearing the area in question. Rose could never understand people who became disorientated in forests. They claimed it all looked the same. Well, so did the council estates and regiments of brown terraces in the inner city, but you never heard of people getting lost there, did you? It was just down to their laziness and inobservance, she thought superciliously, rounding a large bush blocking her view and immediately recognising the place as being the one where she had strayed from the path. Finding the exact spot where the litter had been the day before was easy, but she was to be disappointed.

She could hear the irritating industrial crashes from the Bonchurch Estate building site on the West edge of Sherwood Forest – why they worked late everyday no-one quite knew. Rose suspected they were immigrant workers; the contractors could pay them peanuts and they wouldn't know that it was practically Brit workers' rights to get off early or normal time on Fridays. Aside from that, the only sound in that part of the forest was the spasmodic stirrings in the branches at the movement of wildlife or occasional bursts of near and far tooting from the birds. No gale, no voices. Not a whisper.

Giving it all up as a bad lot (although the questions only niggled more at her brain) Rose headed back for the path and – there! She stopped dead. Roaring, churning, murmuring: it was the unearthly wind-and-words sonance again, only this time it sounded smaller and more concentrated, as if the strange hurricane were contained in an uncorked bottle. Rose took a step forward and the sound grew fainter; a pace to the left and it was back, louder than the first time. She felt as if she were playing some twisted cousin of the game of searching, where children would shout "Warmer! Hot! Very hot!" with unexplained glee until another child found some object. Feeling as if she were following a very stupid dance pattern, Rose took steps in all directions until she found the place where the sound blared loudest: a gargantuan tree, each main bough thicker than the body of a horse, a pillar of hoary eld straining against the tides of time that poured relentlessly over it. Tentatively, she reached out a hand and placed it on the deeply ridged roughness of the bark.

The effect was as immediate and distinct as if she had pressed 'Volume Up'; it now sounded as if the gale was standing right next to her, and it grew marginally louder with every passing second. Chatter that had been an incomprehensible babble resolved into speech and sounds; she could pick out a sloppy, nasal tone, a gruff bark, a shout, a laugh, something smashing, something creaking, something sloshing. Two voices disentangled themselves from the rest and became clear, their conversation fathomable, all the while increasing in volume around her.

"…could call a lacquer, of sorts." It was a female voice that rolled the words in its mouth as if they were rounded sweets – the strong accent was Arabic, Rose thought.

"Need it be thick?" A man's voice, young and curious.

"Only if it is badly made." _Glob-glop._ A noise like boiling treacle. "No – if it has worked, we should need only a thin coat, provided the surface is completely covered."

"I see. How long does it last?"

"I thought this would interest you. See, if not scratched or worn too much, the enamel will protect the wood for years – outliving us, certainly. If the coated object were kept dry and safe, who knows how long it would last? With good lacquer – a few hundred years, by my reckoning." After a pause, the man spoke again.

"Impressive. So the knowledge of how to make it must be valuable."

"Indeed. One who had that knowledge could make a comfortable living here."

"Could sell their services to the highest bidder and further the destruction of this country, you mean."

"Not if they had scruples!" trilled the woman, sounding part annoyed and part amused. "We're not the only good people in England, you know, Will. Anyway, why would the highest bidder necessarily be someone bent on evil?"

"Because they always have more money than the good people." Rose heard no disagreement from the Arabic woman. There was the clanking of a pot and the thick, bubbling sound again. It had grown very loud, now, pressing upon her ears.

"How is it made, Djaq?"

"Slowly," laughed the woman, then more seriously, "The saps and gums of various trees and plants – plants of Saracen lands, not like any found here. Boiling them together in a certain order, at certain temperatures, very caref –" 'CCAWWW!' The sudden umpleasant shriek startled her almost out her of skin. Sweeping close to Rose and caused the girl to squeak and jump back in alarm, the crow flew up and settled on a high bough, where it continued to croak loudly in its ugly voice. As the blood-rush noise went from her ears and her woodpecker-on-speed heart rate slowed, Rose realised the conversation she had become so engrossed in was gone. She placed her hand back on the trunk: nothing, and nothing too when she removed it again.

Before, she had been too intrigued be the talking to think about its preternatural circumstances. Now, with the usual quiet filling the wood, she was distinctly uncomfortable. There was still no explanation as to the source of or the reason for the things she could hear. And Rose wasn't mad. Not her. The fact that her imagining the noises had been pushed almost out of the question by the complex and mysterious conversation she had heard only served to worry her more. For the second time in as many days, Rose hurried from the clearing with unease bubbling in the pit of her stomach.

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Saturday morning was everything a summer morning should be – clear and intensely bright, with vestiges of dawn chill clinging in the air as rose left the flats that had been burnt away completely by the time she reached the forest. Wearing flat boots, loose trousers and a plain blouse beneath her thin fleece, her dull clothes would have been sneered at by any young person she cared to name, but Rose was past being bothered in that respect. Turning into a cold, broke fashion slave wouldn't gain her any friends – not real ones, anyway. Rose stepped off the track and hurried towards the oak. It was so vast that it was hard to see, blending into the backdrop, but once she was aware of it Rose couldn't understand how she had failed to notice it. 

Circling the tree slowly, her eyes took in the mossy, ivy-robed side, then the bare brown bark deep trenches. It was passing the side of the great oak that meant she was obscured from the path that she spotted it: a crack slightly wider and darker than the other furrows, as if it reached further back into the trunk. Ebbing and flowing, now quiet, now louder, she could hear the wind and voices; faint today, it sounded as if it were billowing in rolling whispers from the groove.

She slipped her fingers into her notch. It was deep. She pushed her hand in further and wriggled her fingers as best she could in the narrow space. The walls of the ravine were fairly smooth and hard, but it was empty. Feeling disappointed, Rose began to retract her hand and in doing so, her fingernail touched something loose at the very back of the crevasse. She stopped, and pressed her hand up to the hilt into the crack. Still only her fingertips could scrape the object, which rocked and wobbled at the touch: there was definitely something there, but – Rose swiped this way and that in the rift but could do no more than brush it – it was just out of reach. She snarled in frustration, then jammed her hand in further, the hard, abrasive bark grating painfully against the bones of her wrist. Face screwed up at the biting wrench, she skimmed its corner once, twice, and on the third try her fingertips caught it. Holding it as tight as she could with the merest slivers of flesh, she withdrew her hand shakily, praying the mysterious object wouldn't slip from her scant grip.

With a grimace, she dislodged her hand and the tree's captive from the chasm and after wincingly inspecting her bruised and grazed wrist, she turned her attention to the bundle. It was a fabric parcel, shiny and stiff, with an odd sleek feel to it. Rose turned it over in her hands, wonderingly. She could hear the voices and hissing gusts; it sounded as it the packet itself was whispering. Or held the whisperer. Seeing where the end of the material was tucked in, Rose began to carefully bend and pluck at the folds. The thin veneer, disturbed for the first time, cracked; ecru flakes fell away at each movement and spiralled unhurriedly to the ground.

Curiosity and trepidation were building with her, and Rose's fingers trembled slightly as she pulled back the pleats of thin taupe leather. Why did she have the queer, uneasy feeling that it wasn't by chance it was she who had found the package? That is was, in some troubling way, meant for her? She unrolled the last of the delicate hide and stared, breath bated, at the object nestling in the beige folds. It was an elliptical amulet, slender, made of dun-coloured wood that held the lustre of the enamel used on the parcel, although it was in better condition than its wrappings. It appeared to be the source of the now quiet but insistent murmur that had mystified her. Shakily, Rose picked it up. After half expecting her fingers to sink through illusion, it solidity startled her.

Lying in her palm, it felt smooth, cool and light, like a thin, waterworn pebble. There was a hole in the top – to attach it to a cord, Rose guessed – and she could make out an insignia of some sort etched into the wood; a circle with a bow inside. Rose shivered at her unexplained surety of one thing about the mysterious locket: it was old, perhaps hundreds of years so. The varnish had filled up the small grooves of the carving, forming a smooth finish on the face of the medallion which Rose ran an awed thumb over.

An explosive roar burst upon Rose's ear that made her stagger in shock and with a terrible hiss, a monstrous bucket of water seemed to extinguish the sun; all light and warmth fled in atavistic terror as if being chased by a flock of hellish bats. Silently furious, the freezing dark swept over the terrified girl and for a second she could see, hear, feel nothing at all, as if the entire Universe had fallen away from her. Then the darkness entered her mind, too, and she knew no more.

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**Well, there you go. A rather dark cliffhanger I leave you on, is it not?**

**Also, I want to name all of my chapters by relevant Shakespeare quotes, so if you ever see a chapter and think you have a better Bard phrase, or just know of any good ones I might be able to use, please feel free to PM or review with them.**

**I get so much enjoyment out of your reviews. Any opinions, comments, queries or suggestions, please review – I'd love to hear what you think!**


	3. Lost in the Fairies' Forest

**Disclaimer: Is my name Dominic or Foz? Let me check… no, I thought not. I don't own Robin Hood BBC.**

**Hello again, and thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed. It really makes my day to see a new review alert – please let me know what you think of this new chapter!

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Slowly, Rose became aware. Of what, she didn't know – her senses were still shattered into a jagged and tangled mosaic – but she was conscious of her own existence. Inchmeal, her fractured mind pieced itself together; broken pathways healing and turning meaningless nerve impulses into tangible sensation. The leaves she was lying on were scratchy and the dry earth beneath felt dusty and dirty. Small stones pressed painfully into her skin. And it was as she contemplated the strange abundance and sharpness of sensation that the realisation came: she was naked.

Sitting bolt upright as if electrocuted, Rose scrabbled franticly at her sides for a covering that wasn't there. Her breathing had jumped to the pulmonary answer to a pneumatic drill, but almost as suddenly it slowed down again as Rose stopped her wild and hasty movements and sat unmoving, looking like a Grecian statue turned flesh and blood. Her panic had cut off all coherent thought but now her memory was flooding back in all its nastily incomplete truth. What had happened? She closed her eyes, praying for the dead foliage surrounding her to seamlessly turn to bedsheets but her appeals were ignored and everything remained stubbornly, insolently, horribly real. What on Earth had happened? Had she fainted? Where in Hell's name were her clothes? Perhaps she hadn't been blacking out at all – perhaps someone had attacked her, stolen her clothes…signs which pointed to one dire outcome. Rose blanched. No, she thought grimly, stopping her mind before its tracks led somewhere she didn't want to go. No way.

Standing up shakily, she looked around the forest for the people who were bound to arrive and complete the nightmare, but thankfully (not like she felt particularly like thanking anything at that point) none arrived. The forest looked different, Rose thought in her dark confusion, but she couldn't discern exactly how, like the way the world appeared odd in a way you couldn't put your finger on when viewed through someone else's glasses. It sounded the same, she concluded, beginning to stagger off in the first direction that took her subconscious fancy. Birds, leaves, laughter. She stopped, listening. Laughter. Swinging around, Rose set off at a lurch in the direction of the distant sound, given up on trying to cover herself as there was nothing to do so with and apparently nobody who could see her anyway. Rose felt oddly, impenetrably calm as she followed the merry noises to their source, ignoring the stinging of her unprotected feet. Has she a rational alter-ego, the other Rose would have recognised the signs of shock and denial, but as it was the symptoms went unnoticed. Rose pressed on.

Knowing the laughing group – for it was several revellers she could hear – was near, she slowed down, and hiding behind a shrub to peer over the crest of a slope she saw it: the glittering ribbon of the Trent and on its bank stood a gaggle of women in dresses. Intrigued, Rose looked on in interest. They were washing clothes in the rippling stream – or would have been, had the four of them not been too engaged in splashing one another and shrieking with laughter. Snatching up a handful of claggy river mud, one girl advanced mock-threateningly on her friend, who squealed and ran off into the trees, hotly pursued by her giggling friends. Rose eyed the abandoned piles of clothes, then, gaze periodically flicking to the spot in the forest the girls had disappeared into, made her way stealthily over to the washing and pawed through the still-dry items, feeling like a scavenger. Selecting a rust-coloured dress – there were only dresses, she noticed, with vague unsettlement – that looked as if it would fir her, Rose scarpered with the speed of a frightened squirrel, continuing until she was well away from the stream before stopping to put on the stolen dress.

She did not think of the garment's owner; her disturbingly cool mind had let her guilt drop away as she fled, for the time being, at least. Struggling into the dress – which, oddly, didn't seem to have a zip – Rose grimaced: the thick, coarse fabric felt nasty on her skin. She wished she'd grabbed underwear. Then felt fine that she hadn't: did she really want to be wearing someone else's underwear? Then she remembered she had just woken up naked from a dead faint in the middle of the forest and didn't really know what she felt anymore. Her hands and eyes examined the strange garment, taking in the high ridges of the seams, the simple thick-threaded decorative embroidery twisting along the neckline. "Linen" she remarked, for the material was just that, but her surprise was at its heaviness, its odd roughness.

Beginning to walk away, Rose pulled a face. The fabric felt disgusting, the skirt was awkwardly long, the bodice and shoulders were uncomfortably tight and her still bare feet picked up the prickle of every leaf and stone, of which there was an unsurprising but painful abundance in the wood. Eventually, however, she relapsed into her detached calm to walk and think. She pondered over the women and their washing of dresses. Who on Earth would be playing around by the River Trent in Sherwood Forest in medieval costume on Saturday morning? And the answer leapt from the shadows to the obvious even as she asked herself the question: those classical period re-enactment troupes. What a waste of time, thought Rose irritably, then she lapsed further into morosity. These people had a hobby, and they appeared to be enjoying themselves. What did she do in the evenings, at the weekend? She worked. She ate. She drank wine, listened to her old cassette tapes and new CDs, sang along with her voice reverberating off the studio walls. She drank more wine, she sang progressively worse. Dark drew in. She watched television. She listened to more music. She went to bed empty as that day's bottle of Tesco Own white wine. She woke up to a breakfast of Paracetamol – for the headache – and sometimes Prozac – a safety net for the infrequent bitter urges. The antidepressants came courtesy of the foolish doctor who swallowed her lies about never drinking and 'going through a rough patch' after the death of a non-existant friend as readily as she gulped the pills down each morning. It had taken every skill of acting she possessed to persuade him that it wasn't the memory of 15 months ago. Which it wasn't, she knew, because she had put all that behind her. Case closed.

As she stepped gingerly through a pile of leaves Rose wondered absently whether she should be worried by her ability to lie credibly. She didn't know. She did, however, have some small idea of where she should head: the police station or home, whichever she reached first. Which meant getting out of the forest. And that was another concern itching the inside of her skull – the forest looked… could it look… smaller? But Rose wasn't sure what she meant anyway and shook her head, dislodging the troubled thought. Purpose pushed her onwards as quick as her protesting soles would allow; she would walk in a straight line until she hit the edge of the woods. Being practised at woodland orienteering, the girl knew two things: one that with unregimented bushes and trees and no compasses it was impossible to walk in a straight line through a forest and two, that if she picked the wrong direction she would walk for hours before coming close to the end. Choosing to forget these things, Rose strode forward, looking for all the world like she knew the estate to be just out of sight, beyond the next hill.

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Rose stumbled to her knees in the leaves but this time she didn't get up. I should be feeling tarmac, Rose thought, running her hands lightly over the dry umber earth. Where were the noisy cars, their breath hot and horrible? Where were the pedestrians' footsteps, the squeals of brakes, the blares of horns? _Where was the road?_

She tried going over it again in her stodgy brain. When she'd found a part of the forest that, although it being indescribably wrong in some way, she knew the way to the road from, Rose had almost cried with relief after the tiring hours of determined walking and then aimless wandering. But it was all a nasty nightmare – the places she could almost recognise were scattered sparsely between patches of alien forest; the well-worn trails she followed had vanished, and the things that she knew were there, in that spot – like the road – refused to make an appearance. Rose looked up and down the line that the fairly busy road should be taking; a strip of forest mocked her. In normal circumstances, Rose's thoughts would probably have been frenzied, half-wild with fright, but she had been trudging and stumbling through the woodland for hours and her exhausted mind could manage no more than bewilderment.

Shakily, Rose got to her scratched feet, which along with her parched throat and empty stomach she had grown too tired to pay attention to some time ago. Dazed, she raised her head and looked up to the thankfully constant blue sky broken up by the green leaves dancing over head in the breeze she hadn't noticed start. Without knowing why and hardly knowing she was doing it at all, Rose began to turn slowly on the spot, not taking her widened eyes from the fluttering hordes of pistachio rags. She carried on spinning slowly, gazing upwards until her head felt too heavy to lift anymore and it dropped back down. Even though she was not rotating at any great speed her vision was whirling ferociously fast: it looked to Rose (who still didn't stop turning around and didn't understand why she was doing it anyway) as though the entire world was roaring around her as a central point so rapidly that centrifugal force had pushed all of creation into bands of blurred colour ringing her: green, brown and blue. Eventually she began to slow, as the spinning forest began to decelerate Rose noticed spots that stood out in the haziness, spots that vanished as she turned her back on them and reappeared a second later as patched against the indistinct earthy tones. With each rotation they flashed closer and closer until she could make them out to be people, stillframes of men thrown against the leafy backdrop. Then suddenly one of them was standing right next to her. Startled, Rose stumbled to an unsteady halt, then grinned brightly at him, not quite in possession of all her senses. The man in front of her seemed about to speak, but she got there first.

"Well, you guys certainly are dedicated!"

This appeared to throw him. Face crinkled in confusion, he said,

"I beg your pardon?"

Rose laughed, feeling like her head was full of helium and lemonade bubbles. These men of the medieval re-enactment group even spoke in an old-fashioned way, she thought, eying their costumes with amusement: more of the rough linen and thick stitching like on her dress, but this motley crew had other props like crude leather boots and toolbelts.

"Your costumes, I mean. They're so… detailed."

His face was the picture of bemusement beneath his cloth hat as she stretched out a wavering hand and tugged at the edge of his patterned waistcoat. Her strength in her arm failed her and her hand fell almost instantly away.

"Could you take me to the police, please?"

It came out far quieter than Rose thought it would. The hatted man looked back to his companions as if asking for help, than turned to face her again and cleared his throat nervously. Rose, feeling inexplicably stupid, carried on speaking.

"See, I was here but then I woke up," she leaned in, giggling weakly from the partial dementia of exhaustion and shock, "and someone," her forefinger gave a half-hearted playful waggle and she flashed the poor man a lop-sided, conspiratorial grin, "someone had taken all of my clothes!"

She ended with a small sound between a laugh and a hiccup.

Utterly confused but now a little stern, the man spoke again.

"Miss, are you drunk?"

She pulled back unsteadily, looking affronted, but there was a dizziness spreading through her mind that made it difficult to concentrate.

"Drunk?! Drinking before – before lunchtime –" Grey mist that buzzed like angry hornets was filling her brain and clouding her vision, blotting the man from view. "What do you think… what you think me…" Her voice grew smaller and fainter with every word but Rose couldn't finish the sentence. Blind with dizzying fatigue, she stumbled and pitched forward, crashing into the surprised man before her. He staggered backwards, and the last Rose felt was his hands coming up around her to prevent her from falling before the last of her consciousness trickled away.

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So! A hide and a hair and a hat of an outlaw, at last! It's a fairly short chapter in which not much happens and I apologise, but Chapter 4 should be nice and long to make up for it. **

**If you enjoyed it, if you hated it, if you see something you think needs doing better; if you have a thought, comment or query of any sort please, please, please review. I love reading your opinions - they really do make my day.**

**Love, Pig.**


	4. The Engine of her Thoughts Begins

**Disclaimer: I don't own Robin Hood. But after watching 2.07, let me tell you there would be some changes if I did!**

**Voila – Chapter Four****, and a nice long one at that. The anxiety has returned over this one, because it's my first attempt at ****proper**** Outlaw dialogue and I'm nervous I'll muck it all up.**

**Before I introduce the gang properly:**

**This is sort of AU, in that it isn't following the real storyline. However, I am acting as if the events of Series One up until the end of Episode Eleven (John re-united with his family) have taken place, because I'd like to keep Marian and Edward in Knighton and Gisbourne to still be chasing her rather than being angry of the fool she made of him.**

**Also, pretend Gisbourne and Marian are not engaged. I know that takes us back some way in Series One, but I think it will fit better. **

**Also, in my universe, the Crusades lasted a year longer. Because I want things to happen on a sensible sort of time scale, and I'm a perfectionist and won't let these trifles rest!**

**Though imagine they look like they do in Series Two – because that's just better all round. :D**

**Although the forest looks to be in perpetual ****August in our gang's world, I've decided place the events of 1.11 in mid-spring. For Robin's crew, it is now the summer of 1195 and change is in the air.**

**Hope you enjoy!

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There were voices whispering in the darkness above her but Rose couldn't quite understand what they were saying. She was lying on her back, and from the rustle of leaves and the fresh taste of the air she knew she was in the forest, although thankfully clothed that time. This feels familiar, Rose thought dryly, then winced and wished she hadn't. Her tender mind didn't seem prepared for cynicism yet.

Instead, she lay back, and began to wonder what it was that she could smell. There was woodsmoke, yes, but laced with something strange; a juicy meaty odour Rose didn't recognise. Without opening her eyes, she began to stir, and after her first attempt at speech dried up in her throat the second time she managed to mumble drowsily,

"What is that? That's cooking?"

The whispers above her promptly stopped and one of the voices called out "She's awake," speaking to a space someway to her right where Rose guessed the other men might be. Several sets of footsteps neared her and there was some scuffling as they jostled for position around the recumbent stranger. Rose opened her eyes and after squinting in the oncoming rush of light for a few seconds, took her first good look at the five – no, wait, six – men who had cared for her, it seemed. All but one appeared fairly young, and they were looking at her with varying degrees of uncertainty and concern, but that was where most of the similarity stopped. Rose recognized the man on her left as the one she had spoken to and fallen on. He looked quite kind. He also looked about to speak, but as he broke the quiet the longer haired man next to him did the same and their voices twisted together in the air.

"Are you alright?" "Rabbit."

It was the second statement that belonged to the man she had accidentally used as a crash barrier, and caused them all, including Rose, to turn to him with consternation written across their faces. He looked back at them, seeming perplexed himself at their stares.

"What? She asked what was cooking – I was simply answering her question!"

Somehow, Rose guessed this man might often have outbursts of apparent eccentricity: the others gathered there shared an in-joke sort of grin. Slightly unsteadily, she pushed herself so she was sitting up, leaning heavily on her left hand while her right clutched at her thumping head. After waiting a few seconds while the pain abated, Rose removed her hand and surveyed the campsite about her. She didn't see the mechanisms of the concealable lair, didn't notice the weaponry leaned against the rock walls: all Rose did notice was the lack of the modern canvas she'd been expecting, replaced by pallets and bunks full of blankets in varying states of disarray, and she looked at them in surprise.

"Are you guys sleeping here? Without tents?" Nods all round. The flickering fire caught Rose's eye; four skinned rabbits reclined atop a spider-legged iron griddle set over the flames. Her voice couldn't work out whether to sound impressed at the re-enactment troupe or skeptical as she said lightly, "And cooking rabbits on a fire? A bit keen, aren't you?" She didn't see the looks of bemusement her carers exchanged, being engaged in trying to stand; Rose got most of the way up before her knees shook so violently she thought it best to sit back down before she fell. Feeling a little helpless, she looked up at the concerned group. "Um… may I have some water?" A wooden cup was procured and filled, and put into her hands by the Arabic boy with a small, kindly smile.

Rose wrapped both hands around the vessel and drank, feeling her head clearing with every gulp of the cold water. After several seconds of eying the Arab curiously over the rim of the cup, Rose spoke again. "Sorry," she offered, apologetically, "I didn't realise you were a girl." The girl didn't reply but looked rather pleased. Rose took another sip of water and looked around at the motley crew again, wishing someone would speak or laugh or something to break the odd, tentative silence between them all. The uncomfortable feeling she always got with strangers was beginning and, choosing to forget the fundamental flaws of the morning's orienteering, Rose decided it was a good time to begin the journey home. Then her eyes happened on the short haired man crouching directly in front of her and her face contracted into a frown as she said "Oi! I'll thank you to stop looking at my top" as one, the group threw him disgusted looks; someone's palm connected with the back of his head.

"Sorry" he shrugged, grinning and looking anything but. The young moustached man at her right blushed for him and shot the remorseless culprit an angry and fed up look but Rose didn't see it.

"Speaking of which," she remarked slowly, and the group turned back to see her plucking at the russet dress, "where are my clothes?" The gang shared another confused glance – something Rose had an unpleasant feeling they would all be doing a lot of that day.

"Aren't you wearing them?" ventured the hated man tentatively.

"No…" Rose's voice was absent as she patted the lined skirt. "I had a blouse, fleece, combats… " She ignored the look the group shared. "No – this is one of your lot's. I found it by the river –" And with the word 'river' she pushed herself suddenly to her feet, startling the people around her, and lurched off with surprising speed into the forest.

Rose heard some sort of dispute between the gang she had just left but didn't wait to listen. She just needed a few minutes alone to ease the discomfort in her chest that being spending awkward time with strangers always gave her. She also needed to think a bit, because that morning's memory were slinking back and the situation of the missing clothes had set its heavy harness of worry on her mind again. Willfully ignoring the fact that she had no clue whereabouts in the forest she was, Rose set off slightly unsteadily but fairly fast in search of a peaceful place to sit, and had got some way before she heard the staccato rustlings of footsteps at a jog behind her. She turned around and saw it the man with the patterned waistcoat, the one she'd talked to.

"Milady –" he began, but she cut him off almost instantly with a sharply irate reprimand.

"Don't 'milady' me – look, can you please drop the 'ye olde' acting thing?"

"Drop what? I'm not holding anything." She stared at him; he spoke with truthful confusion and earnest. He continued: "But I think it advisable you come back to camp with us, you don't seem well," he grasped her wrist in he manner of one trying to control a child that was threatening to cry. Rose snapped her hand away sharply and when she talked her speech was angry.

"Can you STOP! This is a bit serious, Mister Medieval, a bit more pressing than your stupid acting. I am lost in the forest, this dress itches, and I think I may have been raped!"

Her voice cracked in two at the last word. Oh, God. She hadn't let it hit her before, but just then it had caught her like a hammer blow to the face. She might have been raped.

Rose sat down rather heavily in the leaves. The funny little man screwed up his face again and ventured timidly,

"I'm sorry, milady, but I don't understand you."

"Raped," she whispered. Rose glanced up at the man and saw that he looked genuinely and apologetically lost. "Um… se-sexually violated," and her voice seemed to crumble at the end. His eyes widened.

"Oh!" He knelt awkwardly next to her and hesitant, unsure, put out a hand to gingerly touch her shoulder. Rose's eyes were glazed and at his tentative touch she shot out her arms and dragged him into a messy tight embrace, desperately clutching at the warmth of another to combat the penetrating cold that seemed to her to have just swept in. She stared unseeingly over his shoulder to a spot on the forest floor.

"I was raped?" she asked the leaves, her mind churning furiously – what did she know about rape? Had she really been or was she just leaping to dire conclusions?

A noise like rustling drums, the multiple thudding of the running groups' footsteps, heralded their arrival. Skidding up to the pair in the forest, they stopped one by one, cartoons-style, at the sight of the girl sprawled in the dirt, clutching Much as if he were the only source of heat in a world of winter. Had it really been a cartoon or Lichtenstein, a large collective though bubble would have bumped them all on the head with "What on Earth…?" inked inside it, but unsurprisingly no such bubble appeared. Instead, they frowned and mouthed their questions at Much, who could only give an anxious half-shrug in return and try to convey without words that he didn't know either.

Finally, Rose raised her head slightly and said, in a small but strong voice,

"Some sick person took my clothes, but I don't think I've been raped." Her statement was self-reassuring, but looking up she saw it had had no effect on the strange group; they stared back at her in consternation.

"Um…violated?" At this they reacted: five sets of eyes widened, three sets of feet shuffled in the leaves, there were two soft intakes of breath. Rose wondered who would be first to speak but her question was answered almost at once; the man with the piercing blue eyes (that had been flitting over her chest ten minutes earlier) piped up,

"I'm not being funny but why would an ill person want your clothes?" Several of the gang nodded; Rose frowned at their misunderstanding.

"No – I said a sick person." The great Cartoonist in the sky would have had to draw on seven overhead question marks. The man looked confused and said a little uncertainly,

"Yeah, we, er – we heard you." Rose's eyes narrowed as she surveyed the five commanding an overhead view of her: there was something very odd about these people.

"A disgusting and improper man?" she tried. At this statement, their faces cleared, although darkness arrived there when they understood what she actually meant.

"I do not care if this man was sick," boomed the mountain of a man standing slightly behind the rest of them, "t'was a wicked thing to do." The others nodded in agreement, with varying degrees of vehemence.

"No! I'm not saying he was sick…" But her exasperated cry trailed off into nothing as she slid her eyes from one to the other in suspicious intrigue. There was no way anyone would bother carrying on such a weak joke on a distressed stranger for so long. These people really didn't understand what she was saying. It was an alarming thought and Rose reacted as she always did when faced with troubling concepts (though the sparkling, inquisitive part of her brain screamed at her not to each time, she was good at taking no notice) – willfully ignored it. Normally she would also drown them out with loud music and wine, but in their absence she simply doubled her efforts on the forgetting, which she found dismayingly easy. She was well-practised.

With a small, tactful cough she realised she was still holding the hated man.

"Oh – sorry," she muttered, embarrassed.

"That's quite alright, milady." Was there a touch of colour in his cheeks too? He stood up and offered a hand to help her to her feet.

"Well," began Rose, with no intention of carrying on. What was she supposed to say to these strange people who didn't understand perfectly normal English? "I think I've, um…" Why did her voice sound so pathetically timid? Rose cleared her throat. "I think I've trespassed on your hospitality long enough. Er… thank you very much" – she wished they would stop regarding her with that concerned confusion – "I was just a bit disorientated, but if you could point me in the direction of Nottingham town centre, I'll make my way home from there." The tall one who looked the youngest, and consequentially about her age, leaned into the stockier one with the fringe across his face. Rose got the impression he was the leader, whatever that might entail.

"Does she mean the marketplace?" The younger one breathed into his ear.

"Who's she, the cat's mother? I am here, you know." As soon as Rose said it she wished she hadn't. They were now staring at her as if she had sprouted an extra head (which for all she knew on this messed up day, she really had done); the younger one's mouth actually fell open slightly.

"We'll escort you to Nottingham," the leader said uncertainly. He half turned to the others. "We can make the deliveries a day early, I'm sure. It might even throw Gisbourne off, slightly." They nodded in agreement. Rose was mildly irritated by his surety that she needed or wanted their company.

"I don't need an escort," she protested, "just direction." The leader turned back and surveyed her with something between amusement and concern.

"It's not safe."

"Of course it is!" Rose snorted derisively. "What do you think this is, the Dark Ages? Just put me on the path, please – I don't need to be minded like a child."

"And I do not need this fuss." He sounded stern, and for a second Rose was worried she had angered them. Then he flashed her a disarmingly dazzling grin. "We are going to Nottingham, and if you do not wish us to escort you," his green eyes twinkled kindly, "then please consent to accompany us." Rose thought a second, unsure where on Earth she stood now with these people. He looked at her in a playfully sort of pleading way that she would normally scorn as being silly and childish but here there was something to be said for its endearing merit.

"Er…" she stalled, thinking furiously: reluctant as she was to allow these people to travel with her like she was an idiot who couldn't look after herself, she recognized that the please were coming from a person who seemed genuinely concerned and, more importantly, safe. Also that it appeared unlikely he was going to let her go on her own now anyway. Rose smiled graciously. "Shall we start?"

His countenance lit up with warm, friendly sun and he seemed about to speak but a voice at her side cut him off.

"Er – Master?"

"Yes, Much?" Rose had already been turning toward the man, amused by his acquiescent address and manner, but did a slight double take before deciding she must have misheard the name.

"Well, we left those rabbits cooking, and I was thinking that perhaps we should wait until later to go to the town, else… I mean, it would be a waste, surely, to –" But the fringed man was already chuckling.

"Don't worry, Much," he chortled – so she hadn't misheard, the man really was called 'Much' – "we won't let those precious coneys go cold. Thinking about it, we don't want

them burnt, either." His eyes twinkled as the man called Much gasped "Oh!" and darted off back to the campsite to check on them and several of the group laughed good-naturedly at his rapidly disappearing figure. The leader turned back to Rose with the rather fetching grin in place again and spoke:

"Have we the pleasure of your company for dinner…?" he trailed off, looking at her expectantly.

"Rose" she replied after a second. She was hesitant to accept their invitation – they were strangers, and decidedly odd ones at that – but once again she felt refusal would fall on deaf ears and it seemed a little rude to anyway. "Well, if it would be OK." Her shy smile was met by a blank look. Rose tried again. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble" The smile reappeared.

"Not at all," he said warmly, then "Lead the way, John." It was addressed to the bearded giant at the back of the group and Rose found herself almost expecting the ground to quake under his massive footfall, but he turned and stamped back through the trees with no ill effect.

"If you are John," she called ahead to the man as she followed the walking troupe, who nodded in acknowledgement, "then what are your names?"

"Allan." said the man with the wandering blue eyes, one of which winked cheekily at her. Not a danger, Rose decided; just a nuisance. She looked to the youngest man, whose smile looked more polite than heartfelt, who said simply,

"Will."

"And she's Djaq," piped up the one called Allan, stepping nimble over a branch, "only it's not the boy way, it's spelt D-J-A-Q 'cos she had to pretend to be a boy when –" Why can't he let her speak for herself, thought Rose, irritated. Rose twisted left to look at her but the girl-who-was-not-called-Jack seemed to have had the same idea: she was several metres ahead, striding away from a disgruntled Allan picking himself up from the ground.

"I am capable of speaking for myself, Allan." she called over her shoulder, sounding more amused than annoyed. Her rich accent rolled in the air around them and Rose started: it was one of the eerie voices she had heard in the clearing. Questions screamed in her mind, demanding attention but at that moment she was spoken to and distracted by the man who she took to be the leader.

"The one you fainted on was Much," he stood up a little straighter, puffing out his chest importantly and giving her an odd wink as if he were about to reveal a secret to one he deemed trustworthy. "And I am Robin." Rose smiled at him.

"Very nice to meet you all."

The one called Robin seemed to deflate slightly. Something snagged in the back of her mind but she wasn't sure what. The smell of rabbit grew stronger as they crested the sheltering slope that overlooked the camp and Rose realised as they began their descent just how hungry she was; it was now around midday and she ha been wandering the forest all morning on a bowl of 7 o'clock cereal. They entered the camp, where the man called Much had just finished laying roughly sliced portions of rabbit on simple wooden disks. Rose stared at the plate placed into her hand, and took the hunk of bread offered her with suspicion. Glancing around at her hosts, she saw that they had settled them selves on various seats, logs and beds scattered about the camp, talking and laughing as if they ate this unnatural fare every day.

She perched tenuously on a nearby section of bough and, not wanting to seem rude, began to pick delicately at the rabbit. A fancy restaurant could have dressed it up with words like 'rare', but with a lack of Michelin stars the forest couldn't try to pretend the mean was anything other than, in her opinion, undercooked. Rose – too embarrassed to ask for cutlery – prodded the pinky-brown flesh dubiously, then looked up: sure enough, each person was tearing strips from their hunk of meat and devouring them with obvious relish.

"Look how you pick at it!"

Rose's gaze snapped in the direction the heavily accented words had come from; the Arab girl was smiling, looking amused. All of the gang glanced toward Rose at her remark. "Anyone would think you were raised as royalty!"

There was no malice in her words, but Rose felt horribly embarrassed beneath the hot weight of their stares; she dropped her eyes to her lap and slowly put a piece of meat in her mouth, chewing in mortified silence. For a few seconds more the group looked at her in unease, then decided the best policy would be to leave this shy stranger alone and returned to their conversation.

"As I was saying," Allan's voice was thick and punctuated with small wet chewing noises: words and rabbit mixed unpleasantly in his mouth. "I got word that Gisbourne been locking up peasant boys in the dungeons again. They were scrumping – twelve year olds being locked up for scrumping, can you believe? He's only kept them there overnight, so far, but you never know what he might decide to do." No-one noticed that at his words Rose had become still, forgetting even to chew. Peasants? Dungeons? Keeping her head mostly bowed, she stole a glance at the six; Robin's warm countenance had taken on a dark shadow and he was nodding grimly, saying

"Does he plan to make a public example of them?"

Allan bit off a chunk of bread and continued to speak through he crumby tornado in his jaws, causing Robin's distaste (and Rose's) to become more pronounced.

"Not sure." said Allan. "Dan at The River Reed promised to find out all he could and I'll pay him a visit later."

"Are we sure he can be trusted?"

"Dan? Yeah. He's a good man – not the sort to have his head turned by silver."

Djaq's head lifted and she looked at Allan with an odd, calculating glance that no-one saw. Robin nodded slowly, thinking over Allan's news.

"And I doubt Gisbourne even knows of his existence, yet – another arrow in our quiver. Good work, Allan – meanwhile, if we find from Dan that there is some form of public spectacle planned –" Rose allowed his voice to fade to a rumbling burr on the periphery of her senses as inside her mind whirled like a blender on speed. Silver and public spectacles – what on _Earth_? Seeds of ideas that had been sown without her knowledge in the back of her mind began to crack open but it was too strange, too freakish to even contemplate and she shied away from the mental husks.

But her usually well-behaved thoughts ran miscreant again and took her along another museful track in pursuit of some slippery prey: it was something to do with their names… their names… But try as she might (before she realised she didn't want to be thinking about it at all) the jigsaw didn't work; the pieces didn't fall into place and the elusive soap bar idea refused to be grasped. Exasperated as well as uneasy, Rose shut off those sections of her mind that remained stubbornly inquisitive and turned her full attention to the meat and bread before her, deliberately oblivious to the conversation taking pace amongst her outlandish companions.

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And there you have it! Please take a second to tell me what you think, any comment or constructive criticism is always welcome.**

**Andelin: Thank you - does it really seems to have such purpose? That's a really encouraging thought – thank you!**

**MyDearDelirious: Thanks for your kindness, but I don't think I could ever claim to be an artist of any description! And in no way does it put your writing to shame – quite the opposite, I would say.**

**El Gringo Loco: Well, I hope this answers at least in part some of your questions, although obviously that task's not going to be completed until the end. And though this update is (hopefully) detailed and long enough, I apologise for it taking so long to put up.**

**RixxiSpooks: A proper book? That's very generous of you – and I'm glad you could tell it was Much! I realised how odd it looks to a person who doesn't know the reasoning behind it (i.e. everyone in the world except me) so rest assured readers, it will be explaned hopefully quite soon.**

**emilyanne-xo: Thank you so much, although I'm most definitely not the best on here. Hope you like this chapter as much!**

**reflect.clouds: Thanks very much for the kind reciprocation :D And pairing are RobinMarian, as per usual, WillOC (hmm.. wonder who that might be ;D ) And I'm toying with the possibility of AllanDjaq. Feedback, people? Your opinions on this?**

**Thanks again, everyone; hope you like it.**


	5. In This Doubtful Shock of Arms

**Disclaimer: Even with a gargantuan magnifying glass, not a single clue of any WillDjaq could be found in 2.08. Elementary, my dear readers: the creative control of the BBC's Robin Hood does not lie with me.

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**So, we arrive at Chapter Five. And may I apologise for my piecrust promise of this being up Monday night – I typed the final words at 11.30, way past when I was meant to have me couche-d, and then I remembered I had to find a fitting Shakespeare quote, and couldn't find one, and my father told me to allez, and vite, so I had to. But these are excuses; I am very sorry.**

**El Gringo Loco: Thanks for reviewing again! Well, by 'public spectacle' I meant a sort of public shaming of the boys… something I was planning on creating detail for when I wrote it, or decided if it was going to feature at all!**

**RixxiSpooks: The speech is fine? Thank you – I've been worried about how it sounds, but your encouragement buoys me!**

**Andelin: 'Well-written' is what I hope for, so thank you so much! And I agree – Much is very sweet.**

**MyDearDelirious: Ta for the kind words and double ta for pointing that arrow thing out – some stupid pig didn't proofread her chapter properly. :-/ Hope you like this.**

**emilyanne-xo: Thank you so much – and 'divine' although perhaps a little too generous, is otherwise a very cool word choice!**

**reflect.clouds: A best-seller? But I'd have to surrender most of the profits to Dom, Foz and Aunty Beeb… that's why I put it here. Nice comments like yours are so much more satisfying than money. And your review looks very fine to me!**

**honestgreenpirate: Wow – huge long rambling reviews, the kind of which I crave! Thank you so much, and ta also for those quotes – I'm sure I can get them in somewhere. I hope you don't find my Will too worryingly distant; I just always saw him as a shy person who finds it a little difficult to connect to people first meeting. I don't know, I'm probably wrong.**

**I am both happy and nervously excited at the moment. Happy, because I have finally drawn together a semi-detailed plot line for this and am no longer bluffing to myself it will all fall into place somehow. And nervous, because my very detailed plan notes stop halfway through Chapter Eight, which I am currently writing. Up until now, my past self has been a co-author but now I'm striking out on my very own! Exciting, eh?**

**Ah, well. Let the chapter commence!

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The joyful, rippling sound of their laughter danced down the earth track and mingled with the bright June sunshine pouring through the gaps in the canopy and pooling in blinding brilliance on the forest floor. Rose and the motley crew had set off promptly after lunch, each one shouldering a lumpen pack wrapped in grey cloth that Rose had accepted willingly but decided not to ask what was inside them, wondering if perhaps the answer would unsettle her further. At first the one called Much had tried to take hers as well, but she had scolded him.

"I'm an independent woman! I don't need being taken care of like that!" she had said, shooing him away, which had earned her a few funny looks from the rest of the group.

Rose breathed in deeply as they walked along, revelling in the scent of the leaves hanging thick in the warm air. The awkwardness of the meal had been forgotten; she found them to be an amusing and amiable bunch and often caught herself laughing along with the rest of them. But more and more as the journey progressed, Rose lapsed into troubled silence as she listened to their strange discussions. Peasants, castles, soldiers – even a mention of a King and a blacksmith – odd things were rife. And – Rose eyed the group cautiously – the leader Robin had shouldered a bow and quiver before they set off. Aside from their strange primitive nature, made with sticks and feathers, would you believe, the heads demolished any notion that they were toys; each was pointedly intimidating. It bothered her, some unnerving notion tickling the back of her mind that she squashed under a metaphorical thumb. No. It was just as well for the gang that they kept their knives and swords sheathed and unobtrusive: had Rose noticed them the girl would have instantly become half wild with suspicious fear.

By the time they were two thirds of the way into their journey, troubled queries had glutted on Rose's mind and she was withdrawn completely from the conversation, walking in automatic and engrossed in thinking and regarding the green forest surrounding her with a faint frown pinching her features. Every so often, she saw a copse, a slope she thought she maybe recognised, but looking again she would invariably see that really it was quite different and she was mistaken. The day's events had disorientated her, waking up as she had in an unknown location. But they couldn't have moved her far, Rose thought, eyes scanning the foreign trees, and she could navigate a good proportion of Sherwood like it was home. Where was the forest she knew and loved? And, she pondered, they had been walking much longer than she would have believed they had to. But it wasn't like the forest was bigger, or anything, because that was just silly. The small roots of uncomfortable ideas began to scratch insistently at the back of her skull, but she tried to ignore the, Rose ran a hand over her brow and raked her messy hair distractedly. It couldn't be. It really couldn't.

"Nearly there." Rose heard as if from far away, and she began to listen more intently. There now, on the periphery of her hearing: voices, various shouts and cries of humans and animals alike, the sound of Bustle. But not one roar of a car or motorbike, and although she could see the trees thinning further ahead there was no sign of any houses, no road, no high rise flats, nothing. As they reached the edge of the woods and people came into sight each of her companions raised their overly large hoods and doused their faces in shadow, but Rose barely noticed. Stepping out from the shade of the trees, Rose felt as if she were breaching the surface of a calm pond and entering a nightmarish world of warped illusion smothered in fake, mocking normalcy to trick her.

In a daze, she followed the hooded gang through vegetable patches and sties and stables and thatched cottages – a gross parody of suburbia – then through streets thronged with people. Grubby children skipping and laughing, old women looking sullen as they hefted bundles of clothes, men looking joyless as they stood by primitive wooden market stalls, all dressed in the ugly fabrics, dull colours and generic styles of an England hundreds of years gone. Each sight, sound and smell assaulted her: a herb bunch hanging in a doorway, a wooden house stooping with old age, a helmeted man wrapped top to toe in charcoal-grey chainmail; a screaming pig and the squeaky scrape of a sword leaving a hilt and water falling into a bucket and unwashed bodies and bloody meat and woodsmoke, all beating her senses until she withdrew completely from the metaphorical blows and could only look on in mounting terror as her body followed the last cowled man through the busy streets.

After some time they arrived in more open space in the middle of the old world market; intimidating stone walls provided a grim backdrop to the scene and a sense of stern immensity to discourage any thought of attacking the forbidding castle they guarded.

"Here we are," proclaimed Robin, turning to face her with a smile but she didn't see him. Rose stared at the archaic wooden stalls, adorned with all manner of crude and strange merchandise and sellers, grim-faced or merry by turn.

"The centre of Nottingham, as you requested." Robin's tone was a little less confident this time but again the staggered girl didn't seem to hear him at all; she merely gaped as if aghast at the perfectly normal weekend market.

Rose's head was spinning so much that she couldn't se the perplexity with which the group were regarding her. All she could see was the marketplace, the marketplace that could have fallen straight from the pages of an illustrated history book. But…no.

"So – you'll make your way home from here?" She barely heard and gave no answer; her eyes were wide as cartwheels as she watched a gap-toothed old man load the vegetables he had purchased into a wicker basket – muddy turnips, of all things.

"Come to think of it," Robin frowned slightly as he spoke half to her, half to himself and half to the gang, "where _do_ you live? I don't remember seeing you here before." Rose wasn't listening to a word he said, directed to her or otherwise, as her frantic eyes raked a line of roughcast iron pots and her fingers worried her unkempt locks. Creeping vines of thought took nastily firm root in her mind and no matter how wildly she tried they remained spitefully immovable. _It would explain everything quite neatly_, suggested a small voice in the corner of her mind which she instantly shushed, discombobulated. There was no way. It couldn't happen. It was _impossible_…

Oblivious to the distraught turmoil in her mind, the hooded gang looked on with varying degrees of concern and consternation written into their features.

"What's wrong with her?" Allan whispered to the rest of them, voicing the questions of their own minds.

"I don't know," muttered Will, frowning slightly at her. Rose looked at the castle and did a sort of double take. Her mouth moved silently for some seconds, words lost to her' eventually Rose rediscovered her voice and said, faintly,

"Whose…who…the castle…who?" She didn't seem able to form any coherence as she stared, astounded, at he stony fortress. Suddenly, she snapped around to face the gang, startling the, but it was the burning intensity in her eyes that hit them like a wall of hot energy and caused several of them to take involuntary steps backward.

"Who lives in the castle?" Rose's voice was still quiet but now had an underlying power, a dangerous edge. No-one spoke: they were all too surprised and confused to answer.

"Who LIVES THERE?!" she shouted angrily and as a group they started violently. Robin glanced at his gang before looking back at the smouldering girl and, clearing his throat, began,

"The Sheriff – " "Of Nottingham." she finished, then gave a derisive snort that twisted her features nastily. "I suppose he sits counting money, and organising archery competitions, and plotting, and…" The gang's helpful nods seemed only to infuriate her further. "Oh, Lord," she fumed, then barked to no-one in particular, "I bet he's in league with a bloody cartoon lion, as well!"

Robin and the others could do nothing but stare. She was worrying, scaring them even, with her ridiculous manner and rantings but some terrible fascination kept their eyes unable to leave the unpredictable storm of a girl. She was quiet, now; standing with face downturned, eyes closed, fists clenched, muttering to herself. Then, perhaps just as unnervingly, she stopped and became entirely still and silent. Her head jerked up, and when she looked at them her manic smile was perhaps the most disturbing thing any of them had seen in months.

"This is Nottingham," she said, indicating around her.

"Yes," said Djaq slowly.

"Ruled by an Evil Sheriff," Earnest shone in her eyes as she placed heavy stress on the words.

"That's right," voiced Little John hesitantly. Something strange and wild twinkled in her eyes as she surveyed the disconcerted bunch, swinging the cloth pack from her back and unwrapping the top, grinning at the crusty loaves she unveiled.

"And would I be right in guessing," she spoke slowly and clearly as if wishing to present her words in diamond-firm clarity, tucking the fabric back into place, "that we are delivering food and money to the people?"

"We are." Will sounded almost uncertain. Rose's smile only widened.

"Of course we are!" she exclaimed, slightly hysterical, then eyed them all pensively. "So you're Robin – Robin Hood, I take it?" Rapidly, her gaze flicked between them. "And John Little? Or should I say, Little John? Let's see… Will Scarlett, Much the Miller's Son, Allan A-Dale, and the Saracen – they say you're a man, but never mind… oh, it all makes sense!" Perhaps it did to her, but the outlaws remained in the dark; as she spoke, six pairs of eyebrows had been drawn tighter and tighter in surprise and suspicion.

Rose hefted her pack back onto her back ad, grinning round at them, queried, "Where's this going, then?"

"Um…" the perplexed frown still hadn't dislodged itself from Robin's face, "that way." Happily, Rose set off in the direction he had gestured but the gang didn't move; instead, they exchanged consternated looks. She turned back from halfway down the street and beckoned madly.

"Come on!" she cried sunnily, and then carried on with a jaunty step that threatened to become an outright girlish skip at any moment. Hanging back lingeringly, they began to follow.

"What's the matter with her? Why the confusion – why the sudden enthusiasm?" muttered Will as he stepped around a stall selling rolls of linen. It was Allan who answered.

"I don't know. And how does she know our names like that but doesn't recognise us?"

"I don't know any more than any of you. There's certainly a good deal very odd about her…" Robin trailed off, watching her grinning in excited, childish wonder at the ordinary street. "But a willing pair of hands could prove useful, for today at least. Come on." They sped up, nimbly avoiding the stalls, animals and humans alike who seemed almost determined to slow them in the busy street.

"What if she shouts something out and brings the guards down on us?" Djaq spoke not with suspicion but with apprehension.

"Or she could be worse – a spy," growled Will. The outlaws watched the girl fall about laughing good-naturedly at a man struggling with a writhing, squealing piglet.

"No, I don't think – " began Much, but Little John cut his words short.

"She is not." he rumbled with finality. A slight ripple of surprise ran through the group.

"But… how do you know, John?" voiced Allan, tentatively. John shrugged.

"You can tell." He said simply, and strode on ahead, cutting a course through the crowds which closed up again as soon as his bulk was squeezed through... Unsure of how to react, the others turned to Robin, who was thinking hard. He glanced around at them and, seeming to have reached partway to a decision, spoke up.

"We'll discuss this later – right now we have deliveries to make."

Reminded of their task, each outlaw nodded and instantly melted into the throngs of people, dispersing in all directions quickly and silently, like seeds on the wind.

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Can you think of a reason for Rose's sudden, strange apparent acceptance of this world? Anyone who watched Life On Mars could probably take a logic-ruler and draw some parallels… :D 

**Please leave a review!**


	6. Forward With Your Tale

**Disclaimer: Unless Aunty Beeb leaves me some deeds, I don't own Robin Hood. And wouldn't until the collapse of the great British Broadcasting Company, that great pillar of entertainment and enlightenment that stands as a symbol for all that is good and British, which will be (hopefully) a very, very long time.

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**OK. First of all, I apologise for this shocking gap in updates. I would blame wilful Internet connections and time-consuming Biology coursework, but they are excuses I am trying to use to shield myself from the fact that I have not updated in a disgracefully long time. I am sorry.**

**And OK again, that Life on Mars reference was not wise! No, she's not in a coma, I simply meant the denial… Hopefully things will become more apparent in this and the next chapter.**

**Small note – the Mapperley Hospital mentioned here really is a mental health insitute in Nottingham. I take delight in little things like that. :D

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**reflect.clouds – No, she's not in a coma. Sorry for being misleading! And ta – realistic is what I'm hoping for, even if it means stuff is going to have to be a little stilted at times for its sake. I describe well? Thank you – I've always loved dressing things up with unnecessary florid language:D**

**emilyanne-xo – Rose's abrupt change in attitude should become clear in the next chapter, and thanks for the thing about John – I just thought he seemed to be a good judge of character, and he does hold an almost paternal authority in the group.**

**RixxiSpooks – Yeah – I've always thought that often when people do time-travel or alternate world-hopping and stuff like that, the characters accept it too easily. Rose isn't going to accept anything without a fight. Aha! I found out the meaning of that quite by accident but knew I had to put it in for you. I don't think I could ever be a novelist – I've been reading books again after a brief lull and it's shown me just how inadequate my own stories are… still, gives me something to strive for, doesn't it:D Ta to your Mum – what happened to our email thing? I never got a reply from you… probably the system lost it. Damn computers. :D**

**Zaedah – I can hear it from here:D Thank you very much for your praise – description is my baby and kind words about it are greatly appreciated! Sorry that these first few chapters don't lend themselves much to snap and wit as you put it, and neither does my stodgy imagination, but I am trying to work on that! I wanted to capture the more realistic things I thought they would be feeling, and thank you for understanding.**

**xXxSour-LemonxXx – Thank you very much! Sorry again for this terrible delay.**

**Maggie – Thanks for your praise – I hope some of your questions are answered in part here. And you really think my dialogue is fine? I'm so grateful for that – dialogue I find the hardest by far. I've also been trying to mentally train myself not to use 'OK' by accident anywhere!

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It was bordering on mid-afternoon by the time the outlaws assembled again on the edge of town, all food and money stealthily delivered, but the June skies still bore the semblance of mid-morning, clinging to their youth. The group remained no less mystified by the strange girl in their midst but found her rather amusing. She skipped gaily through the woods, delighting in the touch of the trees and anything they said to her.

"We still only know your name," called Robin to the rust-clad figure wobbling her way along the top of a fallen log, deciding it was time to know more about their giddy charge. "Care to explain more?"

"Of course!" she cried, jumping neatly from the trunk and trotting over to them. "Full name: Rose Olivia Brenton. Nineteen years of age. I grew up on the Benchurch Estate and went to Nottingham Green Prep – worst years of my life, so I thought then…" Trailing off to nothing, Rose looked speculative, then viewed Robin and the gang with calculation that was almost sharp and accusatory to match her tone. "But I know all this already."

Robin bit his lip – she had seemed nearly normal for a moment, while Little John gave a small, almost pitying shake of the head. Determined to know more about the mysterious Rose, he tried to keep her going.

"Well, you may know, Rose," he remarked, careful to sound jovial but not overly so, "but we do not know, and we should like to know more." Still regarding them with something akin to suspicion, Rose's face betrayed her rapid thinking and she opened her mouth to say something but seemed to decide it wasn't worth it and with a half shrug carried on.

"Well, I left school at 16, after exams, and spent a year and a half doing waitress and bar work. Finally landed myself a job in Nottingham Local Council offices and I have held the dull position ever since. I live alone in my studio on the edge of town." Looking over her shoulder back at them, Rose frowned slightly. "Hm. My life story can be condensed into one short paragraph. That's rather depressing."

The gang had understood little of what she had recounted, but the fascination in the strange stranger pulled them again.

"What about family?" enquired Allan, drawing level with her. Rose had been examining a twig and smiling, but the happiness slid from her face and she was no longer looking at the branch but at something far away.

"Family?" she repeated quietly, as the others drew level to them on the path. "Well, no siblings or cousins or grandparents or anything like that. None that I knew of, anyway, or who knew of me. I had my mother, though." Each of the outlaws noticed her wry smile and the past tense; Much glanced at Allan, looking annoyed. Rose was still holding the twig in her pale fingers, seeing beyond everything before her.

"Mum… at times, she was wonderful. We would play Hide-and-Seek for hours around the park, she'd let me eat syrup from the tin; when I was little I thought it was great. So what if I had no dinner for a few days after she impulse-bought fabric – she'd be up all hours making beautiful curtains or blankets for my room or costumes for me to wear and it would make up for it all. But the rest of the time…" Her statement was left hanging in the air for a few moments like a lead weight on a thread. "Sometimes she honestly forgot I was there, but that was preferable to the times when she was angry and snapped at me and wouldn't eat, but drank a lot. It was when she'd meet me after school with the shiny, wild eyes, all excited, though, that I knew there was trouble ahead. She'd tell me how Gran had contacted her earlier – a message written in the dots of an orange rind, or something like that."

Rose snorted gently, and shook her head a little bitterly. "I should have seen it coming. She was always… different, before Gran died – confused and rash, sometimes, - but after… she became obsessed. With reaching Gran. With death in general. She'd do ridiculous things and not understand about the consequences, she'd be convinced there were people everywhere – 'Them', she called them." The capital 'T" was indisputable. "They were watching her, she said. They were out to get her. I learnt to deal with her panic fairly early on – generally, I would scout around for a bit and tell her confidently that They were nowhere in sight and she would usually calm down. But towards the end even I couldn't help her. Turned out she was right, in a way, about Them – someone must have said something, because suddenly there were welfare workers swarming around, scaring her, calling on her during the school day when I couldn't help her get rid of them. They took her away, the finest example of manic depression – " she glanced shrewdly at the outlaws – "madness – that Mapperley Hospital could wish for."

No-one noticed that they had all stopped walking, caught up completely in the story. She continued to her captivated audience, with perhaps an inch of acrid self-pity. "So I was left – the fourteen year old daughter of a crazy woman. I was taken into c– raised by another family who had two children of their own and couldn't have cared less about me. They wanted the money. I got out as soon as I could and now have myself a home, a job and a nice, normal life." Silence reigned for a few seconds in the still forest. Each outlaw chewed over the information; at times, this girl spoke an English that was foreign to them but they got the general gist, and recognised if not understood the quiet rancour of her last sentence. She had never mentioned a father. None of them asked.

It was Allan who first stirred from his reverie and was amused to se his companions scattered across the path like so many pensive statues. Slapping a hand on Much's shoulder, he sang out,

"What are we – paid thinkers or people with things to do? Come on, let's be getting back." Collectively, they jolted slightly, and to a chorus of murmured "Yes"s set off again down the track, chased and followed by the gold-blushed sunbeams.

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Robin called a meeting of the gang back at the hideout as soon as Rose was out of earshot. She had been designated the washing up to get her out of the way for their discussion; a task she had been surprisingly eager to take on. Gathered together, they could hear faint singing floating on the air from the direction of the stream. Turning to his men, Robin had thoughtfulness and worry jostling for prominence across his face. In a low voice, he addressed them.

"Here's the issue, lads – what are we going to do with Rose?" A collective shrug ran like a tremor through the group.

"She's not a danger. She's not a spy." rumbled Little John, with the firmament his statements always possessed that strongly discouraged any disagreement. Robin nodded.

"I agree, John – but you cannot deny there's something very odd about her. Earlier, she didn't even seem to recognise Nottingham, though she claims to have been raised in Bonchurch, I gathered." A smattering of cogitative nods. "Speaking of which," continued Robin, "have any of you ever seen her before? Anywhere?"

"No…" said Much, slowly. "And she's not from Bonchurch, I assure you."

For a minute, no-one spoke; the lilting song fell gently about them. Allan, first to reach a conclusion, piped up.

"She acted really strange today, didn't she? And she told us she had a mad mother, maybe – maybe she's a bit affected, too, and –" At the fierce look directed his way, Allan began to protest. "Wait, listen, alright! If she's ill in the head herself, then we should help her, right? That's all I'm saying!"

"Could you be any more insensitive?" said Will, irked. Djaq spoke up, with something skin to sternness.

"It's not Allan's fault that he cannot say it properly, because he is right. If this girl cannot support herself for whatever reason, we must look after her until she can."

Each outlaw considered this (Allan nodding maddeningly) and they looked to their leader but he gave none of the affirmation that Djaq had expected. His lips were drawn worriedly to one side and Djaq could see what was preying on his mind: the extra food, chaperoning and other burdens that Rose would place on them. She spoke up severely.

"We cannot turn her away if she needs our help, Robin!" After a second of tense silence, Robin nodded resignedly.

"You're right, Djaq." Turning to Will, he said, "Will, go to her. Get her talking – shouldn't be too hard. See if you can find out anything more about our mysterious guest." The carpenter nodded.

"Alright"

"I'll go, if you like," said Much, sounding nonchalant. Robin's eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement.

"No, that's alright, my friend. I was hoping for you to start on one of your excellent stews." Laughter filled the camp again and Little John clapped a huge hand on Much's shoulder, chuckling.

"Oh, very funny," muttered the manservant with annoyance, stamping over to the kitchen area. "I've half a mind to poison you all!"

"Dinner as usual, then?" grinned Allan, then ducked to avoid the glare and the spoon that Much threw at him.

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As Will approached the stream, it's splashing, rattling voice grew more distinct as did that of their charge. He slowed down to listen in curiosity – it was actually rather good. But nearing, he listened harder and realised it was like no song he had ever heard before; the rhythm was choppy and unusual and a good deal of the words were incomprehensible to him. It could be a foreign song, he pondered dubiously, trying to pretend it hadn't just added itself to the tottering pile of oddities stacked up against her. He strode over to where the girl knelt at the edge of the brook and then, feeling he might look a bit intimidating towering over her, crouched down instead and watched her pick up a handful of grit in a slender hand and begin to scour the inside of a black pot.

"Oh – hello!" Rose greeted him chirpily, pausing her scrubbing of the pot. "Will, isn't it?"

"Yes." He flashed her a small smile which she returned with a quite unnerving beam. Silence fell between them like a thick smother of snow as she recommenced cleaning. Well, what now? thought Will, shifting awkwardly in his uncomfortable crouching position and dropping his gaze to the water. Simple, pointless conversation with strangers had never come very easily to the quiet carpenter. He had hoped that perhaps she would begin talking of her own accord: he was without a clue as to what to say first. At least the strange girl seemed calmer than she had earlier that afternoon.

"I'm sorry." Will looked up and met her rueful gaze as she ventured almost apologetically "I can answer questions but I was never that good at making conversation." Will's eyes lit up slightly – she sounded far more sedate and sensible than before, and so would hopefully be easier to deal with. He smiled, glad to have found some common ground.

"Me neither." he told Rose, and kneeling beside her took a wooden plate and began rinsing.

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Robin carefully pulled a leafy spray aside to gain a glimpse of the pair sitting cross-legged by the stream. The pots and pans, freshly washed, lay in a glistening jumble beside them as each dried the dishes with small pieces of cloth; frequent bursts of conversation and Rose's laughter could be heard back at camp. A rustle hissed its way closer behind Robin's back but he didn't turn, and a second later Much was crouching beside him, behind the bush.

"Should we go and fetch them, now? the manservant grumbled in his ear.

"No," said Robin, not looking round, "they'll come back when they're ready."

"But Master – it's taken them over half and hour!" Robin turned to face him, mouth part open in an amused smile.

"Is that jealousy I hear, Much?"

"No," muttered Much, disgruntled, and he stood and marched back to their base. Robin watched the two talking for a few seconds more – at least they appeared to be getting on well – then straightened up and headed back to the hideout with the shadow of a smile gracing his features.

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**Please review! Constructive criticism greatly appreciated, as if any form of encouragement:D**


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